


Learning to Float

by captainimprobable



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Humanstuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainimprobable/pseuds/captainimprobable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kanaya Maryam is a designer-to-be living in New York City with an extreme dislike of the spotlight and a secret affinity for trashy romance novels.  Enter R. O. Lalonde, author of said trashy romance novels and master of the Art of Subtle Flirting. </p><p>Inspired by an extremely old tumblr post about Rose being a trashy romance novelist, so I can't take all the credit for the idea.  Though I've been sitting on this story for months, so to be honest I couldn't locate the actual post if I tried.</p><p>Also an excuse to write Karkat as a hipster FIT student.  So there's that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Well, Karina, I must say, I am rather impressed with this vest design.” 

You look down and find a stray thread on the sleeve of your coat that suddenly requires absolutely all of your attention, leaving no room to look up at your professor.  Your hands are behind your back, the left thumb surreptitiously caressing the palm of your right in an effort to mimic an old gesture your mother had used to calm you down as a child. 

Thankfully, your professor doesn’t seem to notice.  He continues on in that self satisfied sort of voice that you have come to attribute solely to college professors who think themselves tantamount to the royalty of the educational hierarchy. 

“Yes, yes, you obviously took my advice on the seams by the middle here, I see how well this has been put together…” 

You manage a little jerk of the head that could possibly be interpreted as a nod, choosing not to mention to the professor that he had never once given you advice. 

The thread is dark green, like the rest of your coat.  You rather like the color green. 

 You also decide not to voice the fact that every single time you attempted to explain your idea, he had stubbornly insisted that “vests are for the weak”, and refused to even look at your sketches.  You’re not quite sure what that even means, but apparently you imagined that whole thing, because he’s now exclaiming loudly about how glad he is to have personally chosen a vest for you for this project, and how lucky you are to have a mentor this generous. 

Maybe if you just pulled the thread off? No, that would fray the edges of the coat, and there’s nothing you hate more than frayed clothing.  Well, nothing except- 

Oh, shit he’s still speaking. 

“…Yes, I can see it now, Stefan Donnaghue and his pupil, Camilla Mariposa, revolutionize the way the world sees fashion. “ 

His eyes lose their focus for a second, and you know he’s imagining his name in bold print, but then he suddenly seems to remember that you still exist.  How nice.  He turns to you and puts an earnest hand on your shoulder, which you do your best to pretend doesn’t bother you.  

It does. 

“Krista,” he begins, looking into your eyes in what he probably thinks is a fatherly manner, although it is hindered slightly by the fact that he hasn’t managed to remember your actual name for the entire semester.  

“We must put this design into the show this year.  We will, of course, have you make a speech.  And we’ll need a headshot for the pamphlet-“ 

“No.”

 Donnaghue looks up in surprise, as though he had forgotten you were even there.  Come to think of it, he probably had, _again,_ considering this is your first time speaking this entire conversation. 

“No?” 

“Yes.  I mean no.  I mean…” You’re slowly losing your train of thought, something that always happens when you’re worried.  Your thumb is doing little to calm you down. 

“I just thought that..maybe..my work could be…er…anonymous?” 

He looks at you as though you’ve just sprouted a second head.  You may as well have.  In this industry, recognition is as necessary as air and about as rare as blue diamonds.  Every single student in this place would love to have their name in that pamphlet.  Suddenly you realize that you’re probably coming off as highly ungrateful and attempt to explain yourself. 

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate, this, really, I do,” you start.  You manage to find that green thread again.  You’re really going to have to do something about that.  “It is… just that I would prefer it if people did not know my name.  I would love for them to see my designs, but…” You shrug helplessly and trail off, not sure how to politely ask him to respect your wishes and leave you the hell alone. 

To your surprise, Professor Donnaghue gives you a kindly smile and a nod.  “I understand.”

 Gratefully, and with more than a little shock, you look up at him. “You do?” 

 

“Yes.” He pauses and smiles knowingly before continuing.  “But trust me, once people see these designs, you’ll be glad I put your name on the pamphlets.  Iwouldn’t be surprised if, sometime in the future, every star in Hollywood wants a design made by Krishonda Moseby.”

* * *

“Krishonda….MOSEBY?”

 Karkat is near apoplectic with laughter.  You roll your eyes at him and take a sip of your cappuccino, resigning yourself to staring idly around the Starbucks until he calms down. 

“Oh…oh man,” he finally chokes out after about five minutes, wiping away a tear.  At last, he calms down enough to focus.  He looks at you and raises an eyebrow.  “What a tool.” 

You shrug.  It’s always been hard for you to criticize others. 

Karkat, however, has never had that problem. 

“I mean, seriously.  You give him the best fucking design in class, and instead of listening to what you, the _artist,_ wants, he decides that he’s gonna ignore you and do his own stupid shit.” 

It would seem as though your roommate is revving for a long rant.  You get a little more comfortable in your seat and prepare yourself. 

“Who does this guy think he is, anyway? I bet he’s one of _those._ You know, one of those guys that thinks he’s the fucking messiah of his profession, but hasn’t even gotten his bachelor’s degree.  Wow what a _superhero._ Where’s your cape, asshole?” 

Uncharacteristically, he pauses to take a breath, and his eyes suddenly widen as though he has just reached a life changing revelation.   “NO. WAIT. WHAT IF-“ 

He lowers his voice and leans in conspiratorially.  You give a little smile and humor him, leaning in as thought the two of you were about to share in some big secret. 

“Kanaya.” he says seriously, taking a deep breath.  “What if…he never even got a bachelor’s?  Oh man NO NO wait even better.”  

Apparently he’s done being quiet.  You are not surprised in the least.  

“What if he did, but got it out of the back of some guy’s van.  Like he was walking down 34th or something and saw some dude with a sign, like “BJs for Bachelor’s” or something, got down on those skinny little knees of his, and that’s how he got his job!  Kanaya, this is the best kept secret at FIT oh my god we’ve gotta expose him, KANAYA, it’s our duty as upstanding citizens!” 

He gazes at you, wide eyed and ridiculously earnest, and you can’t help but giggle.  

Instantly, he leans back and smirks in a self satisfied way.  “There it is.  I knew I could get you to smile, Maryam, you can’t hide it from me!” 

You shoot him a grateful look.  What happened with your professor probably wouldn’t seem like a big deal to anyone, but Karkat could tell how much it bothered you.  He could read you better than anyone else ever could, and hates it when you’re upset because you “Mope around like an asshole and make me fucking depressed”.  

He also always knows just how to cheer you up.

* * *

Later on, though, it all comes rushing back full force.  It always does when you’re alone.  

You’re in your room staring at the wall, wishing Karkat were here to watch some of his shitty movies with you and take your mind off of things.  But he’s out with his girlfriend and probably won’t be back for awhile.  You sigh.  You like Terezi, you just sometimes wish you could have your best friend around more often.  

You roll onto your stomach, simply because the change of position gives you something new to do.  You know what happened earlier shouldn’t be a big deal, and probably wouldn’t be to most people anyway.  But you just keep hearing his stupid voice in your head, insisting that you need to be in the spotlight, _don’t worry,_ because “ _I understand.”_ No, professor, you _don’t_ understand.  You haven’t even tried. 

You scowl into your pillow, thinking that it is rather ironic that he insists the world know your name, when he still hasn’t managed to learn it himself after all this time. On the bright side, there’s an almost zero percent chance of the correct name being in the pamphlet. 

You bite your lip, a little ashamed in yourself for ruminating on something so stupid, and hoist yourself up into a sitting position.  Karkat left you with the warning that you should “keep yourself so fucking occupied your eyes will be bleeding from the strain of doing so much awesome shit”.  

In Karkat speak, that means “I’m worried that you’ll waste your night thinking too much.” 

He’s right.  You get into these moods sometimes, and it’s almost always something to do with other people, because they just…don’t seem to understand you. 

You know this isn’t entirely fair, really, because it’s not like you make an effort on your part either.  But sometimes you can’t help but wonder how everyone else just manages to somehow…get on in the world.  

Since you moved to New York, you’d taken to people watching, and it astounds you that you walk past thousands, maybe even millions of people, and all these people have their own billions of thoughts and fears and hopes and dreams and it’s just so _overwhelming_ sometimes that you need to abscond to somewhere a little more private before you can breathe freely again and collect your own thoughts. 

So many people, and they all seem so determined to be the best, or the most noticed, or the brightest.  Sure, you should have expected something like this in New York City, of all places, but it’s been four years since you made the move and the sheer _energy_ of it all still manages to surprise you. 

Four years since you shocked everyone in your small town of Woodhurst, Ohio, (population -17), with your decision to leave.  Nobody could understand why the shy, quiet Kanaya Maryam would ever want choose chaos and uncertainty over safety and comfort. 

Your parents supported you, of course.  They always did.  But you could tell that even they didn’t quite understand, and, though they tried to hide it, you knew they were worried about you.  

Which was completely understandable, considering the first time you stood in the middle of Times Square with the openmouthed gaze of an obvious tourist, the tides of people that flowed around you felt more like they were engulfing you, drowning you slowly in a deep pool of what ifs and what am I doings rather than parting around you as expected. 

You don’t know how to swim. 

But you are Kanaya Maryam, you are not a quitter, and you didn’t leave your entire life behind for nothing. 

So you took a deep breath and started paddling, deciding right then and there that if surviving means filling your lungs with water then goddamnit it’s time for you to adapt. 

And you have, for the most part.  But sometimes, even all these years later, you still feel like that drowning guppy in a sea of brilliant, well dressed, and pseudo likable sharks. 

You let out a frustrated groan with the realization that you’re doing exactly what Karkat warned you against.  You know that if this keeps up, he is going find you under your bed, mumbling about fishpeople and hissing at daylight. 

Yeah, you need to find something else to do. 

With enormous effort, you manage to drag yourself up off your bed and into the living room, searching aimlessly for a viable distraction.  DVDs? No, you’ve watched all of them, and you promised you’d save the good Netflix releases for a movie night with Karkat anyway.  You’re about to flop down onto the couch, content that you walked a whole ten steps.  That should be enough to at least tell Karkat that you tried without actually lying, but before you fully complete your faceplant, something catches your eye.  

You reach for it, realizing too late that it’s one of those shitty romance novels Karkat keeps trying to force on you.  At first he had tried to hide the fact that he liked those kinds of books, but you found one under his mattress during one of your rare forays into the world of cleaning, and that was apparently enough incentive for him to own up to his not so small obsession.  You weren’t surprised in the least. 

Once he had discerned that you weren’t going to make fun of him for the rest of his life, he began insisting that you read them too.  You vehemently disagreed.  Those things were simply not up your alley at all, and you had nearly reached your limit already with all those movies he made you sit through. 

That, unfortunately, didn’t stop him from trying to force them on you anyway, attempting to spring them on you when you least expected it.  You assume that’s why this one is lying on the table now, out in the open and very obviously positioned so that anyone in the room (see also: you) would see it.  

You stare at it for a moment in disgust, as though expecting it to start doing something indecent at any moment.  The cover sure doesn’t help to waylay your suspicions, taken up mostly by a man and woman so fiercely entangled you’re not sure where he ends and she begins.  

You feel an unwarranted spark of curiosity, and you gingerly pick up the book, holding it at arm’s length. 

You squint your eyes as though maybe that will somehow help you understand better, but to no avail.  You have so many questions.  How are they even supposed to breathe? Is that arm hers or his, because it seems to connect them through the stomach somehow and you didn’t know that was possible.  It isn’t possible, is it? Frowning, you narrow your eyes and bring the book a bit closer to your face. 

Is that position supposed to be comfortable? You must admit to yourself that you have almost no experience to go on, so you are quite possibly not the best judge of these things.  But still, you’re pretty sure they do not work that way. 

You open the book and flick through the first few pages, hoping to find some sort of explanation.  When you find none, you sit down in frustration and glare at the cover again.  You were already having a terrible night, and now you have to deal with this.  You decide that the scene from the cover must be later on in the book, and therefore you must read further in order to find it. 

For research purposes, of course. 

And that’s why Karkat finds you lying there, hours later, having fallen asleep with the book over your face.  

The look on his face is one of unbridled glee, and he absolutely refuses to stop smirking as you attempt to explain to him just why you had no choice but to read the book.   And the sequel.  And started on the third.  

It was research, of course.  Nothing more.  It’s not like you actually _like_ this drivel or anything.  Of course not. 

But Karkat just smiles and shakes his head, announcing that he’s going to bed.  But not before accidentally showing you where the rest of the series is on his bookshelf. 

As you make your way back to your room, a little chagrined and with five more books under your arm, you think to yourself that this was a rather successful night. 

Not only did you actually manage to distract yourself, but you also finally discovered, in great detail, everything you had ever wanted to know about the couple on the cover.  And more. 

_Research_ , you think, as you drift off to sleep _.  Just research_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the first Homestuck/second person/ao3 fic I ever started, and I've been sitting on it for a ridiculously long time in the hopes that it will edit itself. It never did, sadly, but I did my best, so try to go easy on me uwu


	2. Chapter 2

“What the fuck are you talking about?” 

Karkat is glaring at you from across the table, his face bright red with anger.  He’s yelling up a storm, fists at his sides and eyes narrowed, and you suddenly know, you just _know_ , that this will be a battle to the end. 

Your apartment has turned into a war zone, and you just stepped on a land mine. 

In this fight there are no friends.  It’s every man for himself, and the losers _will_ get left behind.  You brace yourself for the inevitable fallout and respond. 

“I’m talking about Isabella deserving better that that poser Fernando,” you mutter, dangerously quiet.  

The silence that follows is a heavy one.  You stare each other down in a wordless standoff, and your eyes dare him to disagree. 

Obviously, he does. 

“Kanaya, are you fucking blind?” He pauses for a fraction of a second and shakes his head.  “Actually, I take that back.  I’m pretty sure even Terezi could see that you’re wrong here.” He breathes heavily, angrily, as though he’s just run a mile and that mile was not very kind to him.  “I mean, _come on._   She slept with his goddamn brother.  AND his sister! And you’re telling me that Fernando’s the one with the issues?” 

“Yes, I am,” you retort.  “He drove her to it! He murdered her third cousin and then lied about Melissa.  Obviously she wasn’t going to deal with that so well!” 

Karkat shakes his head, a positively incredulous look on his face.  “He wasn’t lying about Melissa,” he says, exasperated.   “She was in the hospital.  I mean yeah, she was in a coma, but she wasn’t dead, come on! As for the cousin…well…I’m sure he deserved it.” He sets his chin defiantly, certain that the argument has been won with his flawless logic. 

It’s been two months since the night of The Pamphlet, and a certain change has taken over the Vantas-Maryam residence. 

Your apartment has officially been transformed into the R. O. Lalonde Appreciation Club. 

Now that you’ve been exposed to her books too, you’ve fallen head over heels for them, and you and Karkat spend most of your afternoons discussing the books like the social butterfly college students you are.  

Exhausted from your dramatic argument, you both flop down onto the couch, breathing heavily.  

“Man,” Karkat says after you finally catch your breath.  “Imagine they made a movie out of all these books.  How kickass would that be?”  

You grin.  Of course he’d go berserk over an R. O Lalonde movie.  He already loves shitty romance movies so much anyway, putting those together with his favorite shitty romance books would be like Christmas, his birthday, and Free Iced Vanilla Mocha Latte Day at Starbucks all rolled into one.  You wait for the stars to leave his eyes before admitting that seeing those movies would be something you’d love as well. 

“Only if the author was the director, though,” you continue reasonably.  “Movie adaptations are usually terrible unless they have the author on their side.”  

Karkat nods.  “Obviously.  Like, Twilight-” He stops abruptly when he notices the look on your face.  “Wipe that smirk off your face right now Maryam this shit is serious.  Bella’s characterization was all wrong in those movies and you know it.” 

Your smirk deepens, and he blushes a little and changes the subject. 

“Oh shut up.  Get out that crappy laptop of yours- maybe we can find info on the possibility of a movie.” 

You snort derisively, but obey, and soon the two of you are huddled around your tiny Netbook, waiting for it to load.  When it finally does, you type the title of the book series into the search bar and wait. 

Karkat rolls his eyes.  “Seriously, Kanaya, this laptop takes longer to load than you do to get ready in the morning.  Just buy a new one already!” 

You choose to ignore the jab at your morning routines.  Mostly because it’s completely true. 

“For the last time, I’m attached to Herby, alright? I am not getting rid of him.” 

You rise to get a bottle of water while your ancient computer loads, leaving your roommate to laugh to himself about your name choices for inanimate objects.  You’re halfway to the kitchen when his snickers subside and you hear a sharp intake of breath. 

“Kanaya.” 

Something is wrong, you can tell by the quiver in his voice.  You turn around sharply to find him staring at the computer in shock. 

“What’s wrong?” 

When he doesn’t immediately answer, you rush over to check on him.  A speechless Karkat is something that does not happen very often, and should never be taken lightly.  “Karkat?” You poke your roommate gently in the shoulder.  Slowly, he looks away from the computer and up at you. 

“He’s coming here.” 

“What?” 

“R.O. Lalonde.  He’s coming HERE.” 

Without elaborating further, Karkat jumps up and starts doing a little victory dance, which, to your delight, looks really, really stupid.  You’d probably be recording it and sending it to everyone you know if you weren’t so busy joining in. 

“No way!” You practically squeal, snatching up the computer.  “When?” 

But the screen tells you all you need to know.  Wednesday morning. 11 am. Barnes and Noble on East 17th. 

When the two of you have finally had enough of acting like complete idiots and you’re both back on the couch, you grin over at Karkat.  

“So,” you finally say in a hushed tone.  You’re not quite sure why, but you’re speaking almost reverently, as though R. O. Lalonde is some sort of royalty.  Though you suppose in this household, she may as well be.  “What do you think she’s like?” 

“She?” Karkat snorts again.  “Oh, Kanaya, come on.” He smiles slightly, as though indulging a small oblivious child.  Obviously this writer is a man. “ 

“Excuse me?” 

“Yep.” Karkat nods sagely.  “I’ve known it from the moment I opened the first book.  I’ve finally found another person in my gender who appreciates fine literature.  Trust me on this, Kanaya.  I know these things.  My manly radar has yet to fail me. 

You raise your eyebrows.  “Manly radar?” 

He refuses to look embarrassed.  “Yes,” he says defiantly.  

Again, you smirk.  “Fine then.  If you’re so confident in this superhuman ability of yours, let’s make it a bet.  Ten bucks says she’s a woman.” 

Karkat grins too.  “You’re on, Maryam.  Just don’t come crying to me when you lose.” 

You shake on it.

* * *

Wednesday morning. 

You’re running a little late due to your aforementioned excessive morning rituals. 

And by “a little late”, you mean “really fucking late”, as your roommate has been kind enough to keep reminding you. 

Karkat has been screaming at the bathroom door like a cat in heat for the past ten minutes, keeping up a steady stream of “Kanaya I fucking swear if we are late to meet this man I will strangle you with my scarf you know I don’t joke about accessories this guy is my hero Kanaya it is 11:05 we have a subway to take KANAYA I’M LEAVING WITHOUT YOU GODDAMN IT GET YOUR ASS OUT OF THERE YOU DON’T NEED ANY MORE STUPID MAKEUP KANAYA KANAYA KANAYA KANAYA KANAYA KANAYA” 

You ignore him.

It’s not that you want to be late.  It’s just that you’re not quite finished yet.  Which isn’t your fault at all.  You’re going as quickly as you can, but you are sensible enough to know that beauty simply cannot be rushed. 

Karkat, apparently, didn’t get the memo. 

“KRISHONDA MOSEBY IF YOU DON’T GET YOUR ASS OUT OF THAT BATHROOM RIGHT NOW I SWEAR TO GOD I-“ 

You shut him up by opening the door in his face.  

“OW!” He yelps, clutching his nose.  You strut briskly past him into the living room, and open the door.  “Karkat, come on, we are going to be late.  Quit dilly dallying.” 

And with that you sweep out into the hallway and head for the escalator, dodging the creative names your roommate is throwing after you. 

You have to make two subway transfers in order to get to the Barnes and Noble, and Karkat manages to keep up a running stream of obscenities the entire way.  His lung capacity is admirable, though when the 6 train is two minutes late to your station he gets so overcome with rage that he becomes deadly quiet.  You rush him onto the car before he has a heart attack right there on the tracks. 

The subway drops you off three blocks away from the store, and at this point both of you are practically sprinting because you know that Lalonde is only signing autographs until 12, and goddamnit it’s 11:50. 

You burst through the doors with five minutes to spare and ask the harried looking clerk where the signing is.  He points you in the general direction and the two of you race up the escalator at record speeds, coming to a halt at the top to catch your breath.  “Mother….FUCK…” Karkat gasps, clutching at a stitch in his side.  

You’re no better off, though you refrain from using expletives in favor of a gasping “bluh.” 

When you both finally look up, it’s to see an empty room.  Your heart sinks down to land somewhere in the vicinity of your toes. 

You’re surrounded by bookshelves, and you can see a table and chair across the room where R. O. must’ve sat.  Sighing, you look over at Karkat to find a look of dismay on his face that must exactly mirror yours.  “We’re too late,” you whisper, and it’s so obvious and stupid but you don’t know what else to say. 

You slump down right there on the floor, annoyed at yourself for taking so long in the morning. This is all your fault, and you know it.  “Karkat, I’m sorry, I-“ 

“Can I help you two?” 

You look up and your heart comes right back alive again, leaping suddenly to rest uneasily in your throat.  Because there, standing before you, is the most gorgeous woman you have ever seen.  But what really hits you is how damn _classy_ she is.  She looks so poised and elegant, and you have a sneaking suspicion that she didn’t have to spend hours in the bathroom to get that way. It just seems so _natural,_ so real, and you can’t help but wonder if you’ve ever looked like that.  You consider yourself to be a rather self confident person, but even so a part of you can’t help but notice that this woman is everything you’ve ever wanted to be. 

You also have the burning desire to ask her where she got her jacket, because that design is ridiculously intricate, but you stop yourself when you realize that you’re still sitting ever so elegantly on your butt. 

Instantly, you jump to your feet with a little more grace than a legless baboon, and stumble a little.  The woman catches you and you can tell she’s trying hard not to laugh. 

You sure feel classy now. 

Karkat, it seems, hasn’t been affected by whatever spell this woman has put on you, and barely glances up when he rudely responds with “Just looking for this author guy we really wanted to meet.  Nevermind though.” 

He starts to leave, but you find that you are just unable to follow.  Your legs simply won’t obey you, because you just happened to notice her eyes.  They’re this peculiar shade of blue that you could swear looks almost purple in this light, and you’re debating getting just a bit closer to see for yourself when the woman says “That’s me.”

Karkat stops dead and turns around slowly, looking as though he’s just been clubbed over the head by a blunt object. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You’re looking for R. O. Lalonde, right? That’s me.” 

A jolt passes through you and you’re suddenly painfully aware of how close you are to this stranger.  Startled, you frantically scramble backwards and bowl right into Karkat.  

“Fuck, Kanaya, what’s your problem?” 

But he too is staring at the woman like he’s never seen anything like her before. 

“So,” he says uncertainly.  “Let me get this straight.  You’re R. O. Lalonde?” 

The woman raises her blond eyebrows.  “I’m pretty sure.  When we were younger my brother _did_ attempt to make me believe that I wasn’t actually part of the family, though unfortunately for him that little experiment ended with him convinced that _he_ was adopted.  It was rather an impressive show of ignorance on his part, however, considering the fact that we’re twins.” 

Unwittingly, you let out a little giggle, and the woman turns her attention to you once again.  She smiles, and your heart gives a weak little flutter in your throat as you bravely attempt a small smile back.  

Before you can actually say anything, though, Karkat runs up to her and starts speaking a million miles per hour, apparently completely over his shock that his hero turned out to be a woman.  

“Oh my god I’m your biggest fan you have no idea I have all your books and a Fernando action figure and this girl-“ to your surprise, he grabs your arm and pulls you into the conversation “idolizes you also and I just want to say thank you for all you’ve done your writing is flawless-“ 

He goes on for a little while, and when he finally pauses to catch his breath, he seems to realize he’s been talking too much and embarrassment shuts him up.  The author doesn’t seem to mind though, and she smiles again, this time at the both of you.  When her eyes meet yours your breath catches in your throat for a second and you have to remind yourself that passing out here would not be the most impressive thing to do. 

“Thank you so much,” she replies, and her voice is so soft in contrast to Karkat’s that you almost have to strain to hear.  You don’t mind, though.  It’s just an excuse to get even closer to her. 

And then Karkat is pressing a book into her hands for a signature, tripping over himself in his haste. 

And then it’s your turn.  As you hand the book over, her fingers accidentally touch yours, and it’s all you can do to keep from jumping.  Something must have shown in your eyes, though, because that soft voice is speaking again.  “What’s wrong, Miss…?” 

“Maryam,” you choke out, looking anywhere else but those brilliant purple eyes.  “Kanaya Maryam.”  

“Well, Miss Maryam,” she continues, “There’s no need to worry.  I very rarely bite.” She sounds so serious that you just have to look up to make sure she’s joking, but when you do you can see the smile in her eyes.  “Ah,” she says in a satisfied sort of voice.  “It would seem that you do, in fact, have a face.  I was beginning to fear you were all black hair and nothing more.” 

Somehow that makes you blush, and you hope furiously that nobody notices, but of course Karkat does. 

“Don’t worry Ms. Lalonde, she’s not always like this.”  You see an evil little smile begin to play out on that bastard’s face and you just know that he’s going to say something you don’t approve of when sure enough- 

“She just gets extremely shy when she’s nervous.” 

You are going to murder him. 

“Nervous?” 

The author is staring intently at you now, and you think the heat must have gone up at least one hundred degrees in this room because suddenly you feel warm all over. 

“There’s nothing to be nervous about.” Lalonde gives a little laugh that is so soft but so sweet and damn do you want to hear that laugh forever, but you force yourself to calm down because shit you just met this woman and this can’t be normal.  “I’m just like you, I promise.” 

You raise your eyebrows skeptically at her, this natural, successful woman in a suit, and almost laugh.  

Apparently she can tell that you don’t believe her, because she gives another little gem of a smile and says, “Here, let me tell you a secret.” 

And before you know it she’s pulling you towards her and you’re closer to her than you ever imagined you’d be.  And then her breath is in your ear and you have to struggle to stay calm as she whispers, “My real name is Rose”. 

And then it’s over and you’re miles away and you just want to feel her warmth again but she’s busy writing in your book now and doesn’t even seem to notice that you’re struggling to breathe.  

“I just figured it would take some of the mystery out of things,” Ms. Lalonde- Rose, you remind yourself, noting what a beautiful name it is, and how much it fits her, is saying conversationally. 

She hands you your book and gives you another soft smile.  “Nice to meet you Miss Maryam.  And you too, Mr. Vantas.” Karkat beams at her.  “Thanks for the signatures!” he practically yells, and then nudges you rather harder than necessary in the side.  “Oh!” you yelp, finding your voice at last.  “Oh…y-yes.  Thank you very much M- Ms. Lalonde.” 

Those violet eyes find yours again and it suddenly feels like this woman is looking straight into your core.  You feel more than a little uncomfortable, but when you try to look away there’s something about her gaze that just won’t let you go, so you stand there transfixed until at last she breaks away with a muttered “Hmm”.  

You stand there dumbstruck while she turns to speak with Karkat.  “Anything for the fans,” she says.  “However, if you’ll excuse me, I must go.  I have pressing matters to attend to.” Karkat nods vigorously with a wise “I understand”, even though you know for certain that he’s never had any matter, pressing or otherwise, to attend to. 

“Goodbye,” the author waves at Karkat and then turns to you, and for a split second you think you see her wink, but no, that’s not possible, it must have just been a muscle spasm, and then she’s gone and you’re breathing, breathing, breathing at last. 

What.   
The hell.   
Just happened. 

You’re staring at the spot where Rose was just standing and you don’t even know what to do, and you don’t know why you don’t know what to do, and you’re so confused and you wish someone would just swoop in and tell you why you feel like you’ve just been punched in the gut. 

Until someone does. 

“Holy shit, you are so completely crushing on Lalonde!” 

What? 

Well now.  That was not the answer you were looking for.  “Don’t be ridiculous,” you tell Karkat, shaking your head incredulously.  “I just met her.” 

Karkat sighs, a long, drawn out “Huuuuuh” that clearly implies he thinks you’re a dumbass.  “Kanaya you’ve been living with me for four years, and you’re really telling me I haven’t instilled within you the beautiful notion of love at first sight?” 

You scoff at that, slowly regaining your stride.  “Karkat, that is stupid.  Love at first sight is not a thing.”  He glares at you.  

“It is so. Besides, don’t freak out, she was totally digging you, too.” You swallow a gasp and grab his arm.  “She was??”

Karkat smirks.  “I thought you weren’t into her.” You scowl again, though this time it’s mostly to hide the blush, and let go.  

“I am not saying I was interested in her.  I am simply…curious.” 

“Suuure.” Karkat rolls his eyes at you, opening his book to see what Lalonde wrote in it.  “Anyway, Kanaya, she kept looking at you and touching you and seriously what was up with that little intimate shit you had going on there?” 

“What in the world are you talking about?” 

“Don’t play dumb with me, Maryam.”  Karkat raises his voice in a breathy (and admittedly not bad) imitation of Rose’s voice.  “Oh, Kanaya, lemme tell you a…” He pouts and jumps into what you can only assume he believes to be a sexy pose.  Eyes half open, he looks down at you, flutters his eyelashes, and whispers “Secret.” 

It’s too much.  You burst out into laughter, and Karkat looks a little hurt that you aren’t blown away by his acting.  “Hey, whatever, I’m just saying, she winked at you, okay, if she doesn’t want to get in your pants as much as you want to get into hers I’d be more than a little surprised.” 

That shuts you up. 

“Holy shit she’s so cool.  Look!”  He turns over his book so you can read it.  “Karkat.  Always stay true to your inner Fernando.  Although if you can’t get away with murder that’s okay too.  –R. O. Lalonde.” 

“I can’t believe she actually put that down,” Karkat laughs in admiration.  “I knew I’d love her.  Hey, speaking of love, what steamy things did she write in yours?” 

You roll your eyes once again, but move to open your book anyway.  

Suddenly, you’re nervous.  What _did_ she write in yours? You don’t believe anything Karkat says, of course, but a part of you can’t help but hope- 

You open the book and despair settles in the pit of your stomach.  The message only takes up a tiny portion of the page.  You squint in order to read it, but Karkat gets there first.  “Holy SHIT” he yelps in your ear and looks at you incredulously.  

Because there, in the corner of the inside front cover, written in flowy purple writing that somehow matches it’s author perfectly, is a seven digit phone number. 

Holy shit indeed. 


	3. Chapter 3

You are not going to call. 

Frankly, as you have attempted to explain time and again to your appalled roommate, you think it’s rather bizarre for some stranger to give you her phone number upon a first meeting.  You exchanged, what, three whole sentences with her? Definitely not enough to warrant even an implication of such personal interaction. 

You do admit that there was a short time when you’d believed the two of you had shared a…moment, of sorts, but now you’re fairly certain that you misinterpreted the whole thing.  Anything you thought you saw had really just been a product of your imagination, working overtime in the absolute thrill of it all.  

No, you are not going to call.  You are not so simple as to be swayed by a breathy voice, a maybe-sort of-probably not- wink, and the memory of a fleeting smile.  Yes, even if that smile did belong to a reasonably attractive woman.  

And, okay, putting aide the wink-that-never-was, you have to admit that the eyes themselves were nothing short of captivating.  And the voice… Oh god, that _voice,_ soft and calm and comfortable, but with an undercurrent of _something_ you couldn’t quite place that just gave you chills every single time you thought about it. 

Not to say you’ve been thinking about it often.  No way.  That would be stupid. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Kanaya? _”_  

The familiar grating voice interrupts your thoughts, but you simply shrug and continue working on the rough sketch of a dress you’re supposed to hand in for class tomorrow.  You really need to figure out whether or not you want the dress to have sleeves, and besides, this line of questioning has become commonplace in your home over the last day or so.  Which is why you barely stir as Karkat gears himself up for more. 

“Come on, I’m being so fucking serious right now.  Give me one good reason you shouldn’t call.” 

You don’t even look up as you rattle off the same response you’ve been giving for the past few hours.  “Karkat, we’ve been through this,” you mutter distractedly.  “I barely know the woman.” 

Sleeves, you decide, upon further inspection of your drawing.  Definitely sleeves.  

“So get to know her! Over coffee! Or a movie! Or a bed!” 

You drop your pencil.  “Karkat!” 

He holds up his hands in a defensive gesture, not even bothering to hide his devious smile. 

“I’m just saying, Kanaya.  You like her.  She likes you.  I may not be a fucking astrophysicist but even I can tell that 2+2 is definitely equaling to four here.” 

“It’s not equaling to anything, alright? I _don’t_ like her.  I just admire her, that’s all.  Besides, I’m far too busy, and she’s far too old.” 

Karkat snorts as you pick up your pencil again and begin to waffle over color schemes.  Green is usually your signature, but for some reason you’re not quite feeling it today. 

“Too old,” Karkat needles, refusing to let it go.  “Kanaya, she’s only, like, 26.  That’s just four years older than you.  Besides, older women are totally sexy.” 

“What’s this about sexy older women?” 

You both look up to find Terezi standing in the open doorway, casually leaning against the frame.   

You groan, throwing your hands up in frustration.  “There is no sexy older woman!” 

“Bullshit,” Karkat says bluntly, turning to his girlfriend.  “Terezi, help me out here.  Maybe she’ll listen to a future professional.” 

You roll your eyes at that.  “And what exactly do they teach in law school that has anything at all to do with this situation?” 

Too late, you realize your mistake.  Terezi Pyrope never backs down from a challenge.  “Law applies to _everything_ , Maryam,” she says curtly, briskly making her way to where you’re sitting.  She plops down next to you on the couch, catching Karkat in the stomach with her elbow. 

“OW! GODDAMNIT TEREZI!”

She ignores him completely and, to your dismay, gives you her full attention.  “Now, what seems to be the problem?” 

“Terezi!” Karkat is still clutching his stomach, furious at being ignored in his time of apparently harrowing pain.  “Hey come on! What the hell did you do that for? That really fucking hurt!” 

Terezi rolls her eyes.  “Karkat, I’m _blind,_ ” she reminds him, her words dripping with borderline realistic hurt. _“_ God, we’ve been dating for almost three years now and you still can’t remember that? Sheesh.  Some boyfriend you are.”  She then becomes so overwhelmed with emotion that she smacks him on the head with her cane.  Accidentally. 

“JESUS SHIT ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?”  Karkat now grabs his head in favor of his stomach and begins flailing around dramatically.  “THAT’S BULLSHIT.  YOU KNOW IT.  I KNOW IT.  KANAYA KNOWS IT.  YOU LITERALLY JUST WALKED ALL THE WAY TO THE FUCKING COUCH, AROUND THE LAMP AND OVER THOSE SHOES LIKE A GODDAMN BALLERINA WHAT THE FUCK YOU ARE THE LEAST HELPLESS BLIND GIRL I’VE EVER MET NO THE LEAST HELPLESS GIRL I’VE EVER MET YOU DO THIS LITERALLY EVERY FUCKING TIME YOU COME OVER FUCK TEREZI CAN’T YOU JUST-“ 

Terezi simply giggles as she leans over to kiss him, putting to use her tried and true method of shutting Karkat up.  It works quickly and swiftly as usual, and you shake your head in amusement, wondering if you’re the only one who’s noticed that Karkat mysteriously seems to throw more tantrums when Terezi’s around. 

After a few moments she disengages herself from a slightly dazed Karkat and casually turns back to you. 

“So, Beauty Queen.  You’ve got a Sugar Momma now?” 

You splutter for a moment, but manage to glare at her despite the furious blush you’re certain is now spreading its way traitorously across your face.  “No! I don’t! Karkat’s just-“ 

Unfortunately Karkat himself chooses this moment to find his voice again, and promptly uses it to interrupt you. 

“Oh, right! Terezi, check this out.” 

He fumbles with his bag for a moment before pulling something out of it.  To your horror, it’s your own signed copy of Rose’s book.  

“How did you find that?” you ask indignantly. Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes.  “Word to the wise, Kanaya.  Keeping it under your pillow does not exactly scream platonic.” 

Your blush deepens but you have no acceptable defense as Karkat begins to relay every excruciating detail of yesterday’s events to Terezi.  When he’s finished at last, Terezi nods, stroking her chin thoughtfully. 

“I see.” 

“Holy shit, it’s a miracle!” 

This earns Karkat another punch to the stomach.  This time both you and Terezi ignore his loud exclamations. 

“There you go, then, Terezi,” you say.  Now you know how wrong this-“ 

“What the hell is wrong with you, Kanaya?” 

You blink.  “Excuse me?” 

“I hate to admit it, but this jerk over here is right.”  She points to Karkat, still rolling around on the floor.  “You have a gorgeous mature talented older woman vying for your affections, and you’re turning her down?” 

“She’s not vying for my-“ 

“She gave you her number.” 

“Yeah, so? That was just-“ 

“She winked at you.” 

“I probably just imagined that, I-“ 

Terezi makes a disbelieving noise and blows a strand of hair out of her face. 

“Whatever you say, Kanaya.”  She flashes you an evil grin that clearly says she’s not buying any of your crap, and leaves you to rescue Karkat, who is now cursing at the lamp. 

Left uneasily to your thoughts at last, you try to concentrate on your designs, attempting to put everything else aside.  They’re all crazy, anyway. 

For some reason, you find that you’re still still stuck on a color scheme.  Briefly, you consider going with blue, but quickly decide against it.  It’s just not right.  Your eyes begin to wander and fall to rest completely by accident on the still open cover of R.O. Lalonde’s latest and greatest.  The seven infuriating numbers seem to smirk up at you from their place on the page. 

Well, she _did_ give you those numbers for a reason, didn’t she? Maybe- 

You shake your head quickly, firmly shutting down that train of thought.  You are not going to call, and that’s final. 

You turn once again to your outlines, mouth twisting in concentration as you try to brainstorm on colors. 

Unwittingly, however, and quicker than you’d like to admit, you find yourself picturing Rose again.  The way she smiled at you so sweetly, the electricity you felt for that one moment your hands met, and, above all, the wink-that-might-have-been-a-muscle-spasm.  She really did have gorgeous eyes. 

Oh, crap.  

You blink a few times and pinch your arm lightly in an attempt to bring yourself back to reality.  Again. 

Stop it, Kanaya.  You. Are. Not. Going. To. Call.  

It would be stupid and dumb and not like you at all.  Besides, you have far more important things to think about, like the color scheme of this goddamn dress.  

You erase a miniscule flaw at the bottom of your sketch, then redo it, taking care to concentrate on your work, forcing any inklings of a daydream out of your mind. 

You refuse to let Rose Lalonde get inside your head. 

You end up going with a purple color scheme.

* * *

 

“Now?” 

“No.” 

“How bout now?” 

“Nope.” 

“Can you pass the salt?” 

“Sure, here you-“ 

“I bet R. O. Lalonde likes salt.” 

“What are you even talking about?” 

Karkat sighs dramatically as he pours copious amounts of salt onto his spaghetti.  You’re rather impressed that he made the meal himself, seeing as it was only his third attempt at using the cookbook his father had bought for him last year, and the first two tries had resulted in minor injuries and the destruction of three pots and a Kiss the Cook apron. 

You’d probably express your pride at the semi edible food if Karkat wasn’t interrupting every single attempt at conversation by asking when you’re going to call Rose. 

The answer, by the way, is never. 

He refuses to believe you. 

“I don’t know, Kanaya, she just seems like a salt person to me.  You’ll never know, though, since you won’t call her.  What a shame.” 

You refrain from rolling your eyes in fear that the amount of circular strain put on them lately may leave them stuck that way forever, and instead make an attempt at changing the subject. 

“Going with spaghetti for tonight really was a good choice, but did you consider trying the pesto sauce I-“ 

“You’re a chicken.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me Maryam,” Karkat says, eyes narrowed.  “You’re a big fat clucking chicken.  You’re just too scared to call.” 

You snort derisively.   “What is this, pre-school? I am _not_ afraid.” 

“Oh yeah,” He crosses his arms and lowers his voice slightly.   “Prove it.” 

But instead you grin delicately and take another bite of your noodles.  “These really are delicious, you know.” 

“ARGHHH” 

“It’s not nice to scream with your mouth full, Karkat.  Manners, please.” 

“Fuck you.” 

You somehow manage a few minutes of pleasant silence, and you think Karkat has finally given up when- 

“Fine, then.  If this whole thing isn’t a big deal anyway then I guess you won’t mind answering this last question.” 

You look up from your food, signaling for him to continue. 

“If you answer this question, I’ll leave you alone about the whole thing.  Forever.” 

You raise your eyebrows.  “I have to admit my interest is piqued.  What is it?” 

He takes his time, twirling the noodles slowly around his fork until at last- “What did she say to you when she whispered in your ear?” 

Oh. 

Karkat smiles evilly at the doubtless uncomfortable look on your face. “Well?” 

“Um…” You don’t know why you haven’t told him yet.  It’s not even a big deal, really.  Just a name. 

Just a simple name. 

And yet…  There was something in the way she had said it, pulling you close and whispering right in your ear, as though it was the biggest secret in the world and only the two of you could know it.  Only the two of you could share it. 

Resigned, you shake your head. 

Karkat has the audacity to smile.

* * *

 

It’s been three days. 

You still haven’t called. 

Your roommate’s ranting about it has gone past the point of unbearable, but you’ve lived through worse Karkat debacles, so it’s easy for you to tune him out, reducing his whining to a dull background buzzing.  Which is why it takes you a little while to realize something is wrong when the apartment suddenly goes silent.  Cautiously, you shut your computer and strain your ears, searching for any inkling of a sound.  

You know Karkat’s home for sure, because he’d have to walk past you in the living room to leave, and you haven’t seen him.  You wonder what he could possibly be doing if he’s not talking your ear off.  There’s no way he’s studying, because you know for a fact that all he has tomorrow is Psych 311, which he aces without trying.  You feel a sudden chill.  A quiet Karkat is far more terrifying than a loud and obnoxious one. 

You stand up slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible.  You have no idea what you’re expecting, but you have a feeling it’s nothing good.  With care, you tiptoe over to the door to Karkat’s room, which is hanging slightly open.  

Empty. 

You head towards the bathroom as well, though at this point you already have a pretty good idea where he may be, and it’s not the toilet.  One glance confirms your suspicions.  He’s not in the bathroom, which can only mean one thing. 

Oh, no. 

You throw the ninja act out the window in your haste and practically sprint to your room, wondering what in the world he has up his sleeve this time. 

You bolt in to find him lounging on your bed, idly playing with his cellphone. 

“What are you doing in here?” you ask shakily, wondering if you really want to know the answer. 

Your roommate has apparently been expecting you.  He grins and holds up the phone, clearly ecstatic that his plan is coming to fruition at last.  

You have a really bad feeling about this. 

“Oh, just making a call.  You’re right on time, Kanaya!” 

His words don’t sink in at first, and you gape at him confusedly for a few moments.  “What are you-“ It’s then that you notice the open romance novel on the bed next to him.  Your hands grow cold as your head snaps up to look at his face, quickly moving to the phone in his hand.  

“You wouldn’t.”  Your voice is nothing more than a whisper, sounding weak even in your own ears. 

This does not escape Karkat, and he grins, moving his finger to hover over the keypad.  “Wouldn’t I?” 

Quick as lighting, he presses a number.  Six, you note.  There’s a chance he’s still bluffing, though.  There’s no way he’ll go through with the whole thing. 

The manic grin is still there. 

Slowly, he presses the number one. 

Fuck. 

“Karkat, give me the phone,” you say sternly.  False bravado, all of it.  But it’s better than nothing. 

Instead of responding, he presses three more numbers, and your heart nearly stops. 

You know those numbers.  You memorized them three days ago. 

He’s still dialing. 

“One more number, Kanaya,” he says breezily.  “Either you call, or I do.” 

You shoot him a poisonous look, but Karkat Vantas is not one to be out-glared.  He gives it right back to you, and you spend the next two minutes frozen in place, staring daggers at each other, until at last he breaks it.  You watch in slow motion as he brings his finger up to press that last zero and puts the phone to his ear. 

“It’s ringing,” he whispers in a deadly voice, and you finally lunge at him.  He dodges, running from the room screaming bloody murder.  You’re about to chase after him, when you realize that the phone is still on your bed.  And presumably, it’s still ringing…unless someone else picked up.  

Heart hammering, you force yourself to walk towards the phone, finally picking it up with cold fingers.  As if in slow motion, you bring the phone to your ear. 

It’s not ringing.  

Your breath catches for a second, until you gather your wits together.  She’s just a woman, Kanaya.  Calm down.  “Hello,” you force yourself to say in a far more brazen tone than you would have imagined you were capable of in such a state.  You wait a few moments, but when nobody answers back you feel rather annoyed.  True, you hadn’t wanted to call in the first place, but now that you (sort of) have, you figure it’s only right that she answer.  

“Hello,” you say again, this time more forcefully, and when you still don’t get an answer you take the phone away from your ear in frustration.  All that stress, and you miss the call.  You glare angrily at the phone, as if it’s the cause of all your problems, and that’s when you notice.  The green light isn’t even on.      

That little shit never pressed send. 

You’re about to go throw every single Nicholas Sparks novel your roommate owns into the fireplace, but you suddenly realize that maybe, _just maybe_ , you’ve been waiting for this opportunity. 

You immediately resolve never to admit that to Karkat, and feel a sense of near dissociation as you watch your finger drift towards the send button. 

Moment of truth, Kanaya.  It’s now or never. 

You take a deep breath and hold it, considering your options.  Everything in you is screaming to walk away, because this is weird and foreign and so far out of your comfort zone you can barely stand it. 

But maybe, for once, that’s just what you need. 

You exhale slowly.  Breathe in once.  Twice. 

And then you press send, trying not to think too hard about what you’ve just gotten yourself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws chapter at you and runs* 
> 
> Wow yeah way to not update for like ever good going. My apologies, school and stuff has been keeping me almost criminally busy, but I'm still alive! 
> 
> Anyways, yes, next chapter will be a Rosemary one at last, woohooo. (Also thank you guys SO MUCH for your responses so far. Your comments and kudos are all super sweet and unexpected and sdsfgj you're all really great wow.)


	4. Chapter 4

You purposefully arrive at Café Angelique twenty minutes early in order to stake out the place, a tactic you’ve been employing in unfamiliar situations since childhood. 

Thankfully, you possess enough of your sanity to acknowledge that you are not in a bad spy movie, and your enemies are professors and expectations, not secret agents (or attractive novelists).  

You also posses enough of your sanity to acknowledge that the term “stake out” makes you feel totally badass. 

In any case, you’re here now for mainly one reason- you feel that it’s high time you finally got the upper hand on one Rose Lalonde.  

Granted, you met the woman less than a week ago and exchanged a paltry amount of words, but she remains a mystery to you and you find it…frustrating.  Over the past five days your thoughts have ceased to stray towards her, and it frustrates you that you have no idea whether she has had the same problem. 

It frustrates you that you highly doubt it. 

It frustrates you that she’s calm where you’re frantic, and it frustrates you that during the two short conversations you’ve had, she just seemed to _know_ things you don’t, and it all adds up to a big blob of frustration and you just really don’t want to get caught off guard again, and that’s why you’re here far before the date was scheduled and- 

Wait.  No. 

Nobody said anything about a date.  You are simply meeting up with the woman for coffee. 

After she gave you her number. 

And you called her back. 

_You called her back._

You’re still not sure what had come over you when you dialed that number, let alone what’s gotten into you _now._ Calling is one thing, but actually being here, buying a cup of coffee from the smiling cashier? That’s entirely another. 

You glide as quietly as possible toward the corner booth you’d mentally claimed since you’d walked through the door.  As per tradition, it’s close enough to the other patrons that you can observe them from the sidelines, but far enough away so that you’re partially camouflaged and they can’t observe you.  Most importantly, it has a perfect view of both the front window and door, providing you with a prime vantage point to know the second R. O. Lalonde arrives. 

Your friends and family have never really understood your “tactics”, but over the years they’ve grown to accept them nonetheless.  You’ve simply always enjoyed your privacy, though in this case you’re beginning to wonder if maybe the booth is a bit _too_ removed from the rest of the shop. It’s starting to look better suited for a discreet drug deal than it is a date. 

Wait.  No. 

You mean casual friendly meeting.  Yes that is exactly what you are thinking. 

“Hello, Miss Maryam.” 

You’re so startled you jump right out of your chair, heart beating wildly in your chest in accompaniment to the helpful chorus of “how the fuck is this even possible there’s no way oh come on” that’s now playing on repeat in your head.  You were _so sure_ you took the necessary precautions.  You were watching the window from the second you sat down, to make absolutely positively without a doubt certain that you would see her before she saw you.

Well, so much for that. 

You mentally berate yourself for getting distracted at such a crucial moment, and then scramble to find something relevant to concentrate on. 

Naturally, that focus ends up on her outfit. 

She’s wearing a formfitting pantsuit this time ( _oh my god that is definitely not a date outfit this is definitely not a date)_ which ( _surprise surprise_ ) looks stunning on her ( _though the torso pockets could have been made a little smaller)._  

It takes you a few moments to realize that it probably looks very much like you’re now staring at her chest, so you sheepishly abandon your mental fashion crusade and look up to meet her eyes.  

Oh, those _eyes._

You’d known it was coming, but you still have to stifle a tiny gasp when you’re suddenly bombarded with the same color that’s been haunting your thoughts for the past five days. 

Okay, fine. Maybe you do want this to be a date. 

Just a bit. 

After a little while, though, it occurs to you that even the worst dates require conversation, and you haven’t even muttered a polite hello.  You attempt to say something, preferably something clever and/or witty, but you find yourself, once again, frustratingly quiet.  

You’re at a loss, but you’re completely silent and so is she and now her eyebrows are raised again and you’re _still just standing there._  

Why won’t she say anything?  
Why won’t _you_ say anything?? 

Her face looks serene enough, but you have the strangest feeling that she’s enjoying herself.  

At least that makes one of you.  

Finally, when you’re sure your entire body must be bright pink, she opens her mouth. 

“I apologize for startling you.  Unintentional sneakiness runs in the family I suppose.”  She smiles as though enjoying her own little private joke.  “Anyway, I’m going to get a coffee.  Would you like anything?” 

To your credit you don’t jump this time, so you give yourself some imaginary kudos.  You’re already vaguely annoyed that you made a blunder so early in the game, but you’ve never been very good at giving up.  So you manage a small shake of the head and gesture to your still full cup of coffee. 

She nods and walks off to join the small queue by the counter, and you sit down again, straightening out your napkin as you launch into a silent pep talk.  You’re being a tad ridiculous, so you remind yourself that although R. O. Lalonde is beautiful and sophisticated _goddamnit_ so are you, and there is no way you are going to let this get to you again.

You are not going to let his get to you again. 

Right.  Okay. 

You take a deep breath and glance toward the coffee line, noting that Lalonde is still two bodies from the front.  You idly twirl your spoon around in your fingers and try to observe yourself in its reflective surface, but just as quickly as you pick it up it slips from your grasp.  You allow yourself one annoyed groan before you bend down to retrieve the errant utensil, hoping the location of your booth ensures that nobody saw that. 

When you straighten up you find R. O. Lalonde already seated comfortably across from you, nursing a coffee. 

Shit. 

“Welcome back,” she says pleasantly, taking a sip from her drink as you quietly resume your seat, wondering what you ever did to deserve this.    

You feel your face burning, and opt to look anywhere but your companion, staring in turn at your fellow patrons and the inside of your coffee cup.  After a prolonged silence, however, you timidly look up again, and then down.  And it suddenly hits you how completely stupid this is.  You’re used to being shy.  Comfortable with it, even.  But you draw the line at timid. 

Kanaya Maryam doesn’t do _timid._  

You know your resolve must show on your face, because when you look up again, fiercely this time, Lalonde quirks an eyebrow. 

“Well well,” she practically smirks, and suddenly you’re mad.  Mad at yourself for being such a _coward,_ mad at this whole ridiculous situation, but most of all mad at the woman sitting across from you, drinking her cappuccino like she’s in on some big secret you’re not yet privy to.  R. O. Lalonde and her stupid perfect face and her stupid perfect smile and her stupid perfect way of making you feel like a frightened child.    

No. More. 

“What,” you ask, but it comes out far ruder than you’d expected, and you nearly apologize until you notice the twinkle that suddenly appears in Lalonde’s eye.  And then you just get angry all over again.  

Oh, that’s it. 

“I’d prefer it if you wouldn’t observe me so closely.  I am not an animal to be gawked at, you know.”  The word “hypocrite” comes to mind as you quickly relive all the time you spent staring at the woman in front of you, but you choose to ignore it. 

Lalonde’s smirk is finally gone, though something makes you think that she’s not entirely as apologetic as the sober expression on her face implies.  Nonetheless, she keeps her composure entirely as she responds.   “My apologies.  It _was_ impolite of me to stare, it’s just that I’m…highly curious, I must confess.” 

Curious? 

You come perilously close to forgetting your anger as you ask “In what?” 

“Well,” Lalonde taps a finger to her painted lips, and you wait rather impatiently as she seems to gather her thoughts. 

“I suppose it would be correct to say that my interest has been piqued by your reserved nature.  Or, more specifically, where it stems from.”  She seems to hit her stride, and her tone of voice suddenly changes into something almost scientific.  “Of course, there are obviously differences between simple shyness and introversion, just as there are between introversion and social anxiety, but I usually try to avoid such labels.  Nonetheless, there are uses for such things, and I do believe in your case it may be helpful to resort to such trivial methods, if only for the moment, wouldn’t you agree?” 

She blinks at you, though you doubt she really sees, and you feel as though you’ve just been slapped in the face.  

Which makes you want to slap _her_ in the face. 

World famous author she may be, but Rose Lalonde does not get to talk to you that way.  Nobody does.  And it’s time you made that clear. 

“That’s a rather bold thing to say, don’t you think?”  You’ve been told that you get almost terrifyingly calm when you’re angry.  You hope R. O. Lalonde takes note. 

“Call me facetious, but I generally tend to save my deeply personal and completely misguided psychological assessments for at least the third date.  Or, you know, until I’ve known the other person for more than three and a half minutes.  But maybe that’s just me.” 

Dead silence. 

You’re dimly aware of the fact that this date is officially a total trainwreck, but you find that you no longer care.  

You can tell you’ve surprised her when you don’t immediately receive a smug response.  She’s staring again, but this time she doesn’t look analytical.  And this time, you stare right back, refusing to back down until she does.  

At last, she breaks the silence. 

“So,” she says, quietly as usual.  “This is a date?” 

You almost laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all, but you manage to resist the urge and shrug instead.  “If it is, it hasn’t been a very good one,” you say honestly, no longer caring in the least about impressing the woman in front of you.  In fact, you’re considering getting up and leaving, and you’re about to say so when Rose interrupts your thoughts. 

“I originally wanted to be a clinical psychologist, you know,” she mutters softly, and you wonder if that’s supposed to be some pathetic form of an apology because no, obviously you don’t know, why would you, but you choose to stay seated for the moment, wondering where this is going and if it’s going to take awhile.  

When she doesn’t immediately respond, you realize with a jolt that this is the first time that _she_ is avoiding _your_ eyes, and you feel a curious sense of power as it hits you: for the first time, you’re not the vulnerable one.  She is. 

You have to admit you rather like the feeling. 

After a moment’s pause, she gives a polite little cough and seems to find her voice once more.  “Pardon the terrible cliché, but it was my mother who’d always wanted to be a writer.  She never forced me to do anything I didn’t want to do, mind.  It’s not as though she sat me down one day and forced me by gunpoint to write a book.  Quite the opposite, really.  When I expressed interest in the field of psychology, she offered to pay my entire college tuition.“  

She pauses and closes her eyes for a moment, as if steeling herself for what ‘s coming next.  You find yourself unwillingly gaining interest, but make sure to keep your face as composed as possible.  It wouldn’t do to have her know that you’re invested, not now.  At last, she takes a deep breath.   “…As revenge, I got drunk and wrote the first draft of _Detention_ , and a year later I was a published author.  Though I guess, sometimes, I still get a bit…carried away.” 

The words come out in a quick tumble, chasing each other from her mouth and holy shit she actually looks _embarrassed_ , and you…are so confused.  

Present situation aside, how in the world going to tell Karkat that the book series he spends days analyzing and nights arguing viciously about with strangers on internet forums was initially the result of a drunken night and a seriously idiotic passive aggressive argument? 

There are more pressing matters to attend to, though, and so you forget about your roommate for a second to focus on the woman awkwardly awaiting your response.  You’re not sure how you’re supposed to react to something like that out of the blue, and honestly you’re not quite finished being properly annoyed. 

But you’re intuitive enough to recognize an olive branch when you see one, and maybe even still hopeful enough to accept it. 

So you lean back in your chair and bring a finger slowly to your lips. 

“Mommy issues,” you mutter sagely.  “Highly curious.” 

At last, you smirk, and R. O. Lalonde looks so taken aback that you have to fight the urge to smile as you ask: “Wouldn’t you agree?” 

Never in your life (See also: the past five days) would you have guessed that the author could look so surprised.  She blinks a couple of times, and you almost ask if she’s alright when she suddenly bursts into a bout of giggles. And for the first time today you really smile, because you finally realize that Rose Lalonde isn’t prefect.   And that is more than okay.

~~

Needless to say, you don’t end up leaving early. 

Once you get past the initial ministrife, you find that Lalonde is actually highly pleasant to converse with, when she’s not being exceedingly impolite.  She speaks with a quiet grace that you don’t find often among New Yorkers, and frankly it’s refreshing.  

An unspoken agreement passes between the two of you to not return to the realm of the personal again, and the next hour and a half passes with no further psychological evaluations or deep familial relationship discussion, to your immense relief. 

You don’t want it to end, but when you look at your watch and find that it is well past lunchtime, you both agree that it would probably be best to call it a day. 

You’re almost to the door when you realize something. 

“Wait,” you say, and when Lalonde turns, fingers still on the door handle, you pose your question.

“Why do you write under a penname?” 

“A penname?” 

You nod.  “Pardon me if my assessment is incorrect, but it seems as though you’re not the type to mind if people know who you are.  If that’s so, why bother with the penname at all?” 

She smiles, then, and it’s unexpectedly mischievous. 

It only takes her two steps to reach you, and before you know it you’re nearly nose to nose, and her breath is on your face and your mind decides that this is the perfect time to remind you that the last time R. O. Lalonde was this close to you, you nearly passed out.   

You don’t pass out this time, but you’re so focused on the proximity that you’re a little slow to process the words she’s speaking, so that by the time you finally do, she’s halfway out the door. 

“ _I find that some things are best left to the imagination, don’t you_?” 

The bell above the door tinkles, and then Rose Lalonde is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't count paper cuts writer's block is probably the most painful thing ever oh my god. 
> 
> Thanks once again for all the comments and stuff, and for sticking with me even though I'm not here as frequently as I want to be. You guys are fantastic uwu


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hey there.
> 
> This is the part where you pretend I've been steadily updating for the past year. It's been great, hasn't it? We've had some fun. Good times were had by all. Good times.

TT: Krishonda Moseby, huh?  
TT: I must admit, the name does suit you.  
GA: Please Dont Make Me Regret Telling You  
TT: Sorry  
TT: Though I do have to wonder why you’re still going through with the pamphlet idea.  
GA: Meaning  
TT: Well, you’re obviously uncomfortable with the whole thing. Why not just tell your professor the truth? I can hardly imagine he’d say no.  
TT: You are his star student, after all.

You’re about to reply that it’s just not that simple when a noise like a dying elephant interrupts you and you remember that you’re supposed to be watching a movie with Karkat.

Oops.

You look up from your phone for the first time in ten minutes to find him sobbing into a veritable ocean of tissues. Which explains the elephant sounds. Karkat _always_ cries at the end of The Proposal.

You turn back to your phone and let out a little sigh, which Karkat mistakes as a sign that you are as overcome with emotion as he is. You accept the tissue he offers you gracefully, hoping he doesn’t yet notice that you haven’t been paying even a little bit of attention to the movie.

He’d been insufferable ever since you’d gotten back from your sort-of-not-a-date the other day and made the mistake of giggling at a text a la Lalonde. You’d meant to hide your growing textual interactions with the woman in hopes of avoiding the inevitable “I was right and you were wrong so suck it” speech, but Karkat can sniff out romantic situations like a trained explosives dog in a minefield. As a result, you’d spent the last few days enduring pointed comments and smug smiles, thrown at you every time you so much as glanced at your phone.

It was definitely all worth it.

When a buzz alerts you to another text from Lalonde, however, Karkat growls and pauses the movie. You’ve never seen him pause a movie before. You’re suddenly a little terrified.

He turns his head slowly your way, and you find yourself cowering under the weight of his gaze. Ryan Reynolds was about to make a speech.

This must be serious.

“Kanaya,” he spits out, hands trembling. “Ryan Reynolds was about to make a speech.”

You nod shakily.

Your phone buzzes again, and Karkat appraises you.

Instead of yelling, however, he just sighs. “I swear to all that is holy and good, Kanaya, if you don’t make a date with your girlfriend soon then I will do it for you. Again.”

You’re not quite sure how to answer that, so you just offer up a simple “She’s not my girlfriend, Karkat.”

Karkat snorts and rolls his eyes all the way back towards the TV, pressing play again and letting Ryan Reynolds’s romantic monologue wash over the two of you.

“Fine, she’s not your girlfriend.” His eyes look angry, but the side of his face twitches, betraying a hint of a smile. “Yet.”

You look back at your phone, which hasn’t stopped buzzing. Karkat’s smile must be infectious, because you suddenly feel your mouth turning up at the corners as well.

“Yet,” you agree, and begin typing.  
~~  
Fifth Avenue is busy as usual, and you lean back against the wall of the building to let people pass, watching as the crowd breathes out little puffs that form shapes and mingle in the cold air.

After about two minutes, you spot her, wearing a simple black dress that contrasts brilliantly with her pale skin. When she catches your eye, you wave her over and she steps neatly around a family of tourists to greet you.

“Maryam,” she smiles at you and leans in for a chaste hug, which you gladly return. When she pulls away from you, however, she frowns.

“How long have you been waiting here,” she asks.

You shrug. “Five minutes or so, it really wasn’t that long-“

“I can’t believe you’re not wearing a scarf,” she interrupts, and shit, she looks offended.

You look down at your person in confusion, not quite believing that she’s spending the first minute of your date bashing your style choices. You’re the fashion student here, okay, and she needs to-

“You must be freezing,” she says, her expression morphing to one of concern. Your disbelief suddenly liquefies to become a warm feeling in your chest. She was _worried about you_.

She places one hand on your arm, and you try to fight your growing smile as she hurries you through the doors.  
~~  
As the two of you walk into the building, you watch as Lalonde absorbs her surroundings. Before she can say anything, however, you jump in.

“Would you call this a cliché spot for a date?”

She looks amused as she gives you a firm nod. “I’d call this a cliché spot for any event, really.”

“Good,” you reply simply, handing her the tickets you pre-ordered. She studies them briefly, then falls into step beside you on the line.

“I’m sensing a theme here?”

You give yourself a mental high five, pleased that your gamble paid off. She understands, as you’d hoped she would.

“Our first date was at a coffee shop,” you remind her. “Maybe it wasn’t the most normal of meetings, but the setting was definitely as commonplace as it gets.”

“So this is your attempt at continuing the pattern,” she guesses.

You gesture towards your surroundings, the bronze walls and dramatic lighting casting a dull glow over the crowds.

“How did I do?”

Rose takes her time, furrowing her brow and pretending to study the lobby intently. If there’s one thing you’ve learned, it’s that Rose Lalonde has a penchant for the dramatic. You wait patiently for her response.

“Hmm,” she purses her lips. “The Empire State Building. I’d say it’s..suitable.”

You chuckle. “Just suitable?”

“Well, yes…” she taps a black fingernail to her chin. “Unless, of course, we’re going to the observation deck. Because _that_ is just horrendously overdone.”

You point to the tickets in her hand. She inspects them a little more closely this time, and the corners of her mouth tip up.

“Well now. Why don’t you lead the way.”  
~~~  
As it turns out, there are quite a few lines to suffer through before getting to the top of the building. Luckily, however, you are both fairly talkative. You’ve gotten to know each other a bit between the coffee shop encounter and your texting correspondences, but there’s still so much more to learn.

You decide to start simple and basic.

“You grew up in New York, right?”

“Upstate,” she confirms.

You admit that your New York experiences have so far only included the boroughs and parts of Western Long Island, and ask her what it’s like so far upstate.

She pauses for a moment, and you almost expect her to say something poetic. She is an author after all, and the quiet calm of the region in which she was raised must have contributed to that in some way.

“Trees,” she finally says decisively.

“I’m sorry,” You shake your head, not sure if you’d heard correctly. “Did you say trees?” Not exactly what you’d expected, but you suppose you should start to get used to that if you want to see more of Lalonde.

She smirks.

“We had a nice house, but it was in the middle of nowhere. I think my closest neighbor was a half mile away, and he moved away by the time I was six.” She shrugs.

“It was basically our own forest. Which wasn’t exactly a bad thing, but as I got older I did have to deal with an increase in lewd jokes about “wood” from my brother.” She rolls her eyes at the mere memory of her twin, but the annoyance is underscored by a definite fondness.

“You two must be close,” you note.

“Hmm?”

“You mention your brother a lot.”

“Oh, really?” She seems to consider this for a moment. “Well. I suppose I do.”

She adjusts one of the clips in her hair, brushing her bangs out of her eyes before she continues. “He’s a pain in the ass,” she states matter-of-factly. “But if I had to identify my best friend? It would most probably be Dave.”

You finally reach the front of the line, and join a large group of excited tourists in the elevator when it arrives. The doors close behind you, and you turn back to your date as the elevator begins to rise.

“I’d like to say I understand, but I’m an only child. I do have an older cousin I’m close to, but to be honest, we didn’t get along until I was a teenager and we started to have more in common.”

You consider Rose. “Though from what you’ve told me, you two don’t seem to have much in common either.”

She laughs lightly. You’re definitely growing fond of the sound.

“Oh, we definitely have varying… interests,” she says, and you get the feeling there’s some sort of joke there that you’re missing.  
“We’re not as different as we used to believe. Though when we were younger, it seemed to us as though the only thing we had in common was a talent for unnerving adults.”

“You still do that, you know,” you point out.

Rose puts a hand to her mouth, acting scandalized. “Do I?”

She lets out a dramatic gasp. You’re pretty sure she’s joking.

Probably.

You suppose it’s possible that she really is unaware of the effect she has on people, but you have a sneaking suspicion that she not only knows, but probably also uses it to her advantage.

You shiver a little, sure that you’re not ready for that conversation, and swiftly change the subject to something less loaded.

“You have a cat, right?”

“Two of them,” she confirms, seemingly unfazed by the sudden change. “Freud is the black one, Jung’s the tabby.”

Your mouth drops open. It’s probably impolite of you, but you don’t even bother to hide your incredulity. “No.”

Rose, apparently, does not understand the gravity of what she just said. “What,” she asks, bewildered at your reaction.

You put a hand up, making a “stop” motion with your fingers. “I refuse to believe that you actually named your cats _Freud_ and _Jung_.”

Rose looks miffed, and she doesn’t hesitate to voice her displeasure. “Kanaya, Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung were two of the most influential men in the history of psychotherapy.”

You snort.

“Oh, well in that case.”

“What???” She looks truly offended, and you’re forced to consider the fact that you may not be a very nice person, because her upset face just makes you stifle a laugh.

“Nothing,” you cover your mouth, starting to giggle for real. “It’s just that….”

Rose puts her hands on her hips. Her bangs have begun to fall again, but she doesn’t seem to notice as her eyebrows disappear behind a curtain of blonde hair. “Kanaya, just what are you trying to say?”

Still holding back your laughter, you hold up your hand again. “Wait, wait, let me do this in a way you’ll understand.”

You take a deep breath, letting the last of the giggles subside, and manage to contort your features into what you hope is a serious expression.

Once you’re satisfied with the effect, you steeple your fingers together and pretend to stare off dramatically into the distance.

“Rose Lalonde,” you say gravely in what is probably the worst approximation at a German accent ever attempted. “After extensively analyzing your very psyche, I have come to a diagnosis at last. You, Rose Lalonde, are…” You take a deep breath as though preparing to deliver very grave news, and then quickly swivel your head to look into her violet eyes.

“A dork.”

Her mouth drops open, and she sputters in protest. “Oh, _I’m_ the dork?” Her tone is defensive, but definitely playful.  “I’m not the one who spends her time studying romance novels written on a whim!”

“Well no,” you concede. “You’re just the one who spends her time writing them. Face it,” you lean back against the elevator wall. “You’re a dork. A severe case, if I’ve ever seen one.”

“You sound like a five year old.”

“Hey, my analysis never lies.”

“Oh, really,” she smirks, taking a step closer. You notice she’s wearing some sort of perfume, and you try to convince yourself that’s the only reason you suddenly feel lightheaded.

“What else about me have you discovered during this…analysis?”

You recognize the twinkle in her eyes. You’d noticed it back at the coffee shop and know it’s something distinctly _Rose_ , some sort of _something_ that you still don’t quite understand but want to desperately. So when your eyes meet you try your hardest to search- green to purple, purple to green- and you’re not entirely surprised when you still can’t quite read what you’re seeing.

But it’s becoming pretty apparent that you’d be willing to stick around for as long as it takes until you can.

The elevator _dings_. The noise makes you both jump, and you realize with a flush that Rose somehow has you backed up against the elevator wall. As the doors open you let the crowd carry you away from the wall and into the hallway, focusing on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other. It’s not as easy as it usually seems to be. Out of the corner of your eye, you glance at Lalonde. Her face is tinged pink- possibly from the oppressive heat of the crowd, but possibly not. You’re sure you probably look the same.

Fresh air can do you both some good.  
~~  
The view is unbelievable.

When you’d first moved to New York, you’d tried your best to act like the average city dweller, adopting the uncaring mentality of the natives. You’d sighed at slow walking tourists in midtown and avoided looking at subway performers because you’d seen it all before, of course. You’d avoided classic destinations like the Empire State Building and Chinatown, because those were obviously for outsiders, no city people go out of their way to see those things, and you were a city person, damnit.

That attitude had lasted you a week. As much as you’d tried to pretend, you were not a city person. You like taking your time, and more often then not you’re the one on the receiving end of a fast walker’s sigh. You always carry extra ones and fives, just in case you see a particularly good dancer on the subway.

And holy crap, do you love landmarks.

All those writers and artists hadn’t been kidding when they’d talked about New York City being a creator’s paradise. The city has inspired many of your designs over the past few years, and now that you see it spread out in front of you, you’re pretty much speechless.

It’s comforting, in a way, how small everything looks from up here. It’s hard to be overwhelmed by the vastness of the ocean when you realize that from some perspectives, it’s nothing more than a puddle.

You’re so into the view that it takes you a few moments to remember that you’re probably being extremely rude to your date. When you turn to apologize, however, you find that Rose seems to be just as mesmerized by the view as you are.

There’s a look of open amazement on her face as she stares down at the city, and it’s in such stark contrast with her usual guarded smiles that you find yourself staring.

You keep staring even when she notices, because maybe you’re still a little woozy from what happened in the elevator, and maybe you don’t care if she sees what you’re feeling, and maybe you just really, really like looking at Rose Lalonde.

You don’t even notice you’re shivering until Rose points it out. You’re not even that cold, and you tell her so, but she just _tuts_ and begins unraveling her scarf. Before you can protest, she’s taken it off and draped it around your neck.

“That wasn’t necessary,” you insist, but she waves your words away.

“What kind of terrible person would I be if I let you freeze to death?” she asks. “Besides,” she smirks. “I must admit, I do have ulterior motives.”

It’s then that you notice she hasn’t let go of the trailing ends of the scarf. She’s holding them firmly in both hands, and your heart begins to speed up a little.

“Rose Lalonde,” you say, doing your best to keep your voice casual. “This is far more cliché than anything I could have come up with.”

Her eyes meet yours again, and you shiver once more, though this time you’re fairly certain it has nothing to do with the wind.

“Well,” she says simply, gently tugging on the scarf so that your faces are nearly touching. “They’re called clichés for a reason, aren’t they?”

And then her lips are on yours.

You’re suddenly not very cold at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, yeah, I haven't updated this in a year and a half. I'm very, very sorry about that, but things happened. I hope you guys can forgive me!
> 
> As for the rest of the story, I can't make any promises on solidly updating. I almost ended it here, but I already have the rest fairly planned out so I"m going to do my best to continue! But, like I said, things happen. It could be next week, it could be next year, I..really have no idea. I wish i did, but I don't.
> 
> For now, I just want to thank you so much for all the feedback, even when I wasn't around. It means so much to me, and I hope I can continue living up to expectations! (For infrequent updates on the fic, feel free to check out my tumblr at http://captainimprobable.tumblr.com/.)


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